


Like a Bowstring

by Rosage



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, F/F, Fix-It, Post-Black Eagles Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Warnings inside
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:34:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26795938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosage/pseuds/Rosage
Summary: Shamir saves Catherine, leading to a difficult decision.
Relationships: Catherine/Shamir Nevrand
Comments: 2
Kudos: 34





	Like a Bowstring

**Author's Note:**

> _Warnings_ : As this follows CF’s final battle, Catherine is in a dark place mentally, and there are references to canon fiery war crimes, death, grief, injuries, and vomit.

Catherine wakes up expecting flames. Towers of them, roaring, eternal. Only warm, dry air consumes her aching body, and a single candle flickers in the nondescript tent, hiding a figure in its shadows.

All of Catherine’s senses cry _Shamir_ , the one who conceals even her breath. She’s sitting against the tent wall with an arm across her knee, a pose too familiar to process her scarred nose or pinched skin.

Still, the soldier in Catherine sounds the alarm. She assesses herself. Though sore, she’s patched up, with only her smaller injuries remaining. The hangover of a good healing beats that of a night at the tavern, but her head and heart pound from more than that. Too much to think about, other than what’s in front of her—her partner’s final betrayal.

“You didn’t let me die in battle.” It comes out too quiet, too defeated. She tries to spit but can only burble. “Are the gallows ready, or does her Imperial Majesty still need a prisoner of war?”

Minutely, Shamir shakes her head. “It’s over, Catherine.”

“You’re not that naïve.”

“Of course not.”

The moment Catherine laid torch to the first house, she knew her fate. Even though other things she’s done for Lady Rhea could have led here, things she might never have chosen for herself—this was different, and she knew. She felt it in her own divine blood, in the screams of the family before her and the dragon behind her.

“Wait,” Catherine says. “Is Lady Rhea...”

Shamir has the gall to soften. “I’m sorry.”

The tent turns to fuzz. The cot falls away into some chasm, leaving Catherine suspended. Her body screeches along with her as she jerks upright.

“You’re not sorry, you’re not, you—”

Hands clap over her mouth and shoulder before she sees Shamir move. “Don’t draw attention or use up energy.”

Biting at Shamir’s hand, Catherine wrenches away. She barks, dry and hoarse. “Energy for what?”

Nothing, without protecting her liege. She can’t even ask if revenge is Lady Rhea’s will, nor does she know who to inflict it upon. The only one here was too busy hauling a corpse off the field to do more than spit in her former employer’s eye.

“For leaving,” Shamir says.

“Leaving?” Catherine stares through her milky vision. She must be delirious, still lying on the city ground, waiting to meet the goddess.

“I know stealth isn’t your strong suit, but everyone who’s not unconscious or firefighting is drunk off their ass.”

“We’re not all cowards,” Catherine says.

“What happened to not sacrificing your life?”

“Don’t act like you know me. We…”

Shamir gives her a sniper’s pointed look, as sharp as the thin, lightning-shaped scars branching down her neck.

Catherine knows, too. Everything she’s only seen in dreams these past five years: how the shadows soften Shamir’s lithe, strong form, or how she’ll snap like a bowstring if Catherine pulls her too far. The arrows pierced Catherine where she envisioned, and Shamir’s presence calmed her even then, as she knew it would—but she hadn’t imagined the backdrop of flame as Shamir rained her judgment, or that the final arrow would never embed itself in her heart.

She lies back down. “I’m too injured.” _Weak_. She grits her teeth.

“Mercedes is tending to Cyril. She’ll finish patching you up soon.”

Ah, yes. Even one of the most faithful students abandoned Lady—Catherine cannot think the name. And now those hands heal the burns from Catherine’s fires.

Catherine rolls over in time not to vomit on herself. At least the stench covers the smoke. With an angel’s grace, Shamir hovers over her, pulling back her loose hair before placing a hand between her shoulder blades. That contact is all that grounds her.

“After Mercedes leaves, we’ll make our move,” Shamir says, as if continuing a status report. She lists other points—patrol schedules, hiding spots outside the city, a contingency plan—that Catherine tracks out of trained instinct, only because she has no other orders to follow.

“And after you leave again?”

Catherine can survive better than anyone, even (she can’t, it can’t be) the Immaculate One. But she can’t move a muscle without someone to put the torch in her hand and point.

Shamir gathers more of Catherine’s hair, her leather glove brushing Catherine’s jaw. It’s hard not to lean into it, knowing she wouldn’t feel a thing if Shamir didn’t want her to.

“It wasn’t you I left,” Shamir says.

She murmurs it close to Catherine’s ear, the illusion of official business gone, and Catherine snorts even as she burns.

“I have no more debts to pay,” Shamir continues. “Just a partner, unless you’re too stubborn to join me.”

Catherine doesn’t respond, not right away. But she can’t stop herself from turning her cheek into Shamir’s palm.


End file.
